19 year old writer, I focus mainly on short horror literature, inspired by Edgar Allen Poe, HP Lovecraft and others.
Under the ice
Edward had always hated his parents log cabin, since he was a young boy had been haunted by the ominous overwhelming feeling of being watched, not just watched but hunted, longed for in fact. There was just something about the seemingly ever frozen lake that repulsed him yet simultaneously called to him, beckoning him over. Every year for Christmas his family would take a long painful drive down and spend a week isolated from the spontaneous terrors of the smog filled suburban world, to live harmoniously with nature, becoming at one with the environment around them and feeling the blissful calming effects of the hidden world. It usually allowed them to be happy and content in each other’s company, not this year. This year was different, his parents were different and deep-down Edward knew this was the last time he would be forced to hide himself away during the festivities. They had been arguing more than ever and it seemed that time had finally caught up to the Caulfield's as it was always going to, however Edward took comfort in knowing he only had to survive one more week of this arctic nightmare, one week of irrational terror and airborne ambience of hatred then he can go back home and finally learn of his parents’ divorce. "We're here", boasted his portly unshaven dad as the rusted cars wheels finally came to a halt.
"Feed me" Again, the harrowing voice bellowed and hurled around the young boys empty mind. A sickening calmness to it sticking to every reasonable emotion of doubt and fear that crept its way back into the drivers seat, ridding the only saviours of sanity that the boy could hope for. No, this echoing declaration of murderous intent was a force of nature, much more powerful and wiser than the pitiful pathetic morality of a developing human brain. It was old, older than humanity itself and somehow the immature child that it plagued could sense this, perhaps that's why he served its every demand or perhaps the mortal child was never in control from the start.
What’s to come
Choking! Blood and rust alike erupt from my mouth like merciless magma firing from the behemoth of Vesuvius. Gagging violently on the icy tongue of iron that relentlessly writhes its way through my oesophagus I yank at a chain hanging from my mouth and feel every single link claw and tear at my vulnerable flesh on its way out. A beautiful heart-shaped locket consumed by brown rust emerges, as I wipe away my dripping scarlet blood, a crudely etched scrawl of writing comes into view. 'Remember' reads the scribbles upon a neatly engraved cut stating T.G. Flooding into my brain a tsunami of sadistic fear and the piercing realisation that I do not know who I am, where I am or even when I am. All I know is the primal terror I have felt since awakening from my rigamortis haunted corpse-like state. In a desperate panic aided by a stampede of sweet adrenaline, I fling open the heart and am welcomed by a warm photo of a beautiful woman sitting upon a silky mattress, Immediately a sense of purpose and desire befalls me and I come to know a fundamental fact that will decide my near future, I must follow my heart.
Blistering snow hurls around me, tarring over my pupils with a thick and constant caustic white paint. From the little vision I have left, my eyes focus solely on my deep brown boots that penetrate the snow repeatedly, each step polluting a shard of my memory in its wake. Behind me should lay thousands of soil diseased footprints laying as corpses in the beautiful, vile baron desert. But no, the scars of the mountain ripped by my very steps had been buried long ago, the monstrous blizzard hysterically hiding any hopes of finding salvation back down this inescapable path. Like a disease of the brain, the sinister snow claws and gouges at my mind relentlessly, ripping any sense of sanity that I may claim to have once possessed. We both know one day he will slash its way in and take refuge in my puny, weak human mind, a fate worse than death.
The cult of Broken Gate
Blood curdling shrieks pierced the quiet night, invading the army of silence that had been present for the many hours before. The clock read 22:22, as I knew it would, of course it would, ‘it’ happens at this time every year. Terrifyingly this rude awakening had actually become quite monotonous over the last decade and I was growing sick of it, however, if I had known then what I know now I would have ran away the first time, I should have ran away the first time.
I belong to the marshes now
Empty voids of immense nothingness fled my mind as quickly as they had appeared. I have awoken and groggily I rise like a zombie clawing its way up tooth and nail from the cold hard soil. Bewildered I recoil and turn in awe and fear of what surrounds me, I find myself trapped in what I can only assume is the dampest and most isolated sorry pit of the Earth. Surrounding me is drowned marshes, trees draped in moss and suffocated by the inevitable unstoppable force of rot, always creeping forwards, pushed solely by time on its way to claim another victim. Bodies of water lay dormant around me, an even deeper shade of green then that on the trees clings tightly to the surface like a deadly parasite bleeding it’s prey of any life. It creates a film of waste. It hides all that is beneath it, leaving only darkness and harsh secrets below.